Breaking Beautiful (4 page)

The jeans are too big, the gap at the waist a testament to the weight I’ve lost since Trip died. The T-shirt is too small. I guess my chest has grown since I was fourteen. The falcon
stretched across the front is probably too sexy for a girl who’s supposed to be in mourning, but I know it will annoy Mom and Dad.

I ended up throwing my gray sweatshirt on over the T-shirt on my way out the door, anyway. The sweatshirt was my constant companion and hiding place last year. I always wore it, even on the rare occasions when it was actually warm—another thing that annoyed my fashionista mother.

Sitting in Dad’s truck in front of the school, all of my rebellion melts away and the terror is back. I can’t shrink far enough into my gray sweatshirt today. I would do anything to avoid going through those doors. Anything but go to the grief counselor in Aberdeen.

“You’ll be okay.” Dad follows my gaze down the long sidewalk to the double door. “I’m not going to tell you it will be easy, but you can do it.”

Not much of a pep talk. You’d think with Dad’s experience sending troops into battle he would have some canned speech about being brave. I touch the stone in the bottom of my pocket, but I don’t feel an influx of courage.

He puts his truck in gear, a subtle hint that it’s time for me to get out. “Hang in there.” I open the door, slide out slowly, and reach for my backpack. He gives me what is supposed to be an encouraging smile. “Have a good day.” I can only nod, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and face the firing squad.

Dad is habitually early, so there aren’t very many students here yet—thank God. The few who are turn and whisper to each other when I walk by. I keep my eyes on the ground all the way to the door and head for the office. I have no idea what my
class schedule is or where my new locker is. I don’t even know if they’re expecting me. The hard marble eyes of the school mascot—a stuffed bobcat trapped in a glass case—accuse me as I pass by.

The secretary, Mrs. Byron, and Ms. Holt, the school nurse/ guidance counselor/girls’ sports assistant coach, are chatting with their backs to me. The only one who sees me walk in is Clair, the part-time office assistant who was a student here less than three years ago. She gasps when she looks up. “Allie.” She puts her hand over her mouth. “Your hair.” I touch the hat and feel little spikes of hair sticking through the back. The other two turn, but they have time to check their expressions before they see me. I put my hand over the side of my face to cover the scar there.

“Hello, Allie.” Mrs. Byron gives Clair a stern sideways glance. “Your mom called this morning and said you would be here today. It’s good to see you.”

Clair nods, but her hand hasn’t left her mouth and her eyes are glistening.

“I have your schedule and locker assignment,” Mrs. Byron says. She starts shuffling through some papers on the desk.

Ms. Holt gives me a weak smile that I try to return. I’ve made it a point to avoid her since my visit to her office last year. I slipped on the sidewalk at lunch and scraped up my elbow. My stats teacher sent me to the nurse’s office when he saw the blood dripping through the paper towel I was holding over my arm. All Ms. Holt had to do was give me a Band-Aid. Instead, she made me sit on her little paper-covered bed and take off my sweatshirt so she could clean out the wound. When she saw my
arms, she asked a lot of questions. I gave her my canned “clinical clumsiness” excuse. I think she bought it, but after that she was always watching me, the way she’s examining the scar above my eye now. At least I have a viable story for that one.

“How are you doing?” Clair’s eyes are nearly brimming over, but she’s forcing a smile.

“Okay,” I mutter. My fingers find the rough spot on the stone in my pocket.

“You poor thing, you’ve really been through it.” Clair sniffs and pulls a tissue from the box on her desk. “We all miss Trip around here. He was so alive, you know, always—” Another firm look and head shake from Mrs. Byron shuts her up.

Mrs. Byron shuffles through the papers on the desk and produces a little blue card, just like the one I got when I enrolled in school two years ago. She leans over the desk and points to my locker number. “Your locker is down the new hall, on the right.” By “new hall” she means the hall that was added on to the school in 1979.

“Do you want us to have someone take you there?” Clair asks.

“No, thanks.” I ignore the obvious stupidity of that question. Pacific Cliffs’ combined school is about one-quarter the size of my grade school in Maryland, and I navigated that when I was five.

“Your advisor is Mr. Hamilton,” Mrs. Byron continues. “He’s out in the portable this year.”

I nod and reach for the paper. Before I can grasp it, I hear a familiar fake-sweet, singsong voice behind me. “Mrs. Byron, where can I copy the flyers for the bonfire?”

I don’t turn to face Hannah—willing her to leave without seeing me—but in another second she’s beside me.

“Allie,” she gasps. Then she does the last thing I expect her to do. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me against her ample chest. I’m stuck with a face full of her blue silk blouse and musky perfume. I can’t lift my arms to hug her back. All I can think is how different this greeting is from the one I got from her when I moved to Pacific Cliffs.

Hannah was waiting for me in front of the school after Mom dropped me off that first day. She knew exactly who I was and what had happened between me and Trip the summer before. Mom hadn’t even driven away when Hannah fell into step beside me. We walked together the last three steps into the building, just long enough for her to spit one word in my direction: “Bitch.”

I’m sure she was responsible for that same word painted across my locker in red fingernail polish a week later. The janitor used acetone to remove it, which made the old paint bubble underneath. Even after the locker had been repainted the same sickening orange brown, you could see what had been written there. If I went to locker 18-B now I’m positive I would still be able to read that label across the front—my greeting every day when I came to school.

“Oh, Allie.” Hannah releases me and wipes her eyes. “It’s so good to see you. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Clair is full-fledged crying, and even Ms. Holt is dabbing at her eyes. Only Mrs. Byron seems unaffected. She reaches for the flyer in Hannah’s hand. “I’ll make the copies.”

Hannah takes my blue card from between my fingers. “We
have our first three classes together. Come with me. I’ll walk you there.”

I have no choice but to let her put her arm around me and guide me down the hall, past the whispers and stares, toward my new, unmarked locker.

Hannah and I walking down the hall together causes more of a stir than I could have made on my own. I reach to brush my hair against my face, to cover the scar, but there isn’t enough left. Instead, I tug the hat down farther. I’m sure everyone is asking themselves the question I’ve thought of a million times. How could Trip ever choose me over Hannah?

Hannah is beautiful—long black hair that hangs satiny and straight down her back, green eyes, and an olive complexion that makes her look perpetually tan. She’s taller than me, and athletic—star of track and basketball.

The difference between us is glaringly obvious as we walk together. Not only do I look like a freak now, but I stumble along with my eyes on the floor. Hannah smiles and floats down the hall like the pageant queen she is—poised and confident. She won the Beachcomber’s Queen contest without blinking.

I know who Trip would choose now.

My whole life people have told me I’m beautiful. Way back when I was in fourth grade I remember my mom talking about me over the phone. She said, “Allie has a hard time in school. She’ll never be smart like her brother.” Then she laughed and said, “Yeah, at least she’s pretty.”

Maybe before I
was
pretty. I had my hair—long and thick, and a honey-gold color that guys go for. I’ve always been decently thin with an okay chest—not eye-poppingly huge like Hannah’s,
but okay. Some people even thought my freaky eye was cool. Because we moved around so much, I was always the new kid. Maybe that’s what Trip saw in me—something new.

I go through the first half of the day without seeing Andrew. I’ve made it past the opening round of whispers, stares, and the sympathy that drips off everyone. The only bright spot today is that so far the teachers have excused the work I missed. So much for Blake’s valiant efforts. I haven’t seen him either, something that’s hard to do in a school the size of Pacific Cliffs, even if he’s a junior and I’m a senior.

By the time I put my books in my locker to go to lunch, I’m exhausted. I wonder if Dad or Mom would come rescue me if I called. Doubt it. I’m tired of being the center of attention so I go to the special ed room to eat lunch with Andrew.

He’s already at the table when I come in. He could eat in the commons with the other kids, but it embarrasses him to eat in front of people. He has one hand that works okay as long as he’s not excited or upset, but eating takes a lot of coordination between his hand, his head, and his mouth. The food doesn’t always reach its intended destination.

The aide is busy on the other side of the room with another student, so I help Andrew pull on the vest that protects his clothes. I get his cup out of his backpack and pour “Thick-It”—a powder that thickens liquid so he doesn’t choke—into his apple juice.

He picks up his spoon, weighted so he can get it to his mouth with less shaking, and smiles at me. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m still mad. “Th-th-thanks, Al.”

I look away, almost dissolving into the tears I’ve fought all day, and slide a chair next to him.

“No food?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”

He pushes his tray toward me, ground turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, and applesauce. I make a face and he makes one back. “You … can … live on it—”

“—but death might be better.” I finish the joke we’ve shared forever.

I need to feel Andrew next to me, so I put my hand on his knee under the table. He pushes his feet against the footrest of his chair and his hands against the seat. He half stands with his shoulders pressing against the restraint holding him in and adjusts his position. His body is always in motion like that, even when he sleeps. Mom says it’s nerves and habit. Andrew says he does it to build up strength. On good days he can support his own weight long enough to get from his chair to the bed. When he was a little kid he got around by rolling and army crawling, but he’s gotten too tall and too old for that.

I wonder what it would be like if things were different—if I had been the one born second and blue from lack of oxygen. Even with his twisted body, Andrew is gorgeous. His hair is the same color as mine, but curly, falling in soft waves over his ears. His brown eyes are framed by long eyelashes and he’s tall, with Dad’s broad shoulders. He would have filled out like Dad, played football and basketball, and every girl at school would’ve been after him. I could have been strapped in that chair instead of him. Dad talks about people coming back from the war with survivor’s guilt. I’ve had survivor’s guilt since birth.

“There you are, Allie.” Hannah sweeps into the special ed room. “Hi, Andrew.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. He drops the spoonful of potatoes he was working into his mouth and turns
red. She smiles at him. “Did you actually grasp what Mr. King was trying to tell us in physics yesterday?” Andrew bobs his head up and down. “I might have to pick your brain later,” she says. Andrew beams, and Hannah turns back to me. “I saved you a place at lunch.” She hesitates. “Unless you want to eat in here. I could bring you a tray.”

I can’t believe Hannah is being nice to me. I would rather stay with Andrew, but he waves me off so I follow Hannah to the commons. Her friends Angie and Megan are already there. James and Randall, Trip’s friends, aren’t around. Last year Angie and Randall were joined at the hip and usually the lips. I must have missed a break-up somewhere. That doesn’t surprise me. They fought all the time when they were dating.

When I saw James and Randall in the hall, they wouldn’t look at me. I couldn’t look at them either. It must be weird for them to see me without Trip. Truthfully, it feels weird for me to be walking around school without him.

Lunch is strained conversation and awkward silence. I pick at my food and wish I had stayed with Andrew. It’s a relief when lunch is over, and Hannah heads to the opposite end of the hall for her honors classes.

I finally see Blake when I walk into art. He’s lying with his head on his desk, the hood of his white Volcom sweatshirt pulled up over his ears and a black cord trailing from the hood.

I glance around, out of habit, to see if anyone is watching before I approach him. He startles when I tap him on the shoulder, pulls the earbuds out of his ears, and blinks up at me like he’s surprised to see me, or maybe just surprised I’m talking to him in public. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back to school?”

I sit in the desk next to his. “I didn’t really plan on it. It just sort of happened.”

He coils the cord from his earbuds around his fingers. “So you and Hannah are buddies now?”

“I don’t know.” I squirm. He must have seen me sometime this morning, even if I didn’t see him. “She sort of accosted me when I walked in.”

“She’s been playing the widow since you’ve been gone. Playing up her relationship with Trip to get attention. Now that you’re back, I guess she’ll have to share that attention.” There’s an edge to Blake’s voice that bothers me, like he’s accusing me of using Trip’s accident to get attention, too.

“She could be sincere.”

“Doubt it.”

“What if she’s genuinely hurting?”

“Right.” Blake kicks the leg of his desk and it pings loudly. “Hannah can’t stand that your accident took all the attention away from her winning the pageant. The only loss she’s mourning is the death of her spotlight.”

“People can change, Blake.” I’m not sure why I’m defending her, except that she was nice to Andrew. “Why don’t you give her a chance?”

“Maybe because nobody in this town has ever given me a chance.” To signify that our discussion is over he puts his earbuds back in his ears and lays his head back down on the desk.